Ash awoke to pain.
Not the dull ache of bruises or the hunger that gnawed his belly like a second heartbeat—but sharp, searing pain that radiated from his side. Every breath burned. Every blink dragged the weight of exhaustion behind it.
He wasn't dead. That surprised him.
The world above had been fire and fury. He remembered Lily's scream, the spear through his ribs, the heat rushing from him like breath from a dying god. Then—darkness.
Now… silence.
His vision swam as he tried to sit up, but something held him down. His arms were bound at the wrists, ropes rough against raw skin. He was lying on stone—cold, damp, uneven. A cell.
No torchlight. Only the faint glow of moss on the far wall, casting sickly green shadows that crawled like insects.
He wasn't alone.
"Don't move too quickly, boy. You'll tear it open again."
The voice was male, rough like gravel dragged across iron. Low, tired, but not unkind.
Ash turned his head, wincing. In the corner sat a figure, barely visible in the gloom. As Ash's eyes adjusted, the man came into focus.
He was older—maybe late forties—with a thick gray beard braided down the center and eyes like worn steel. His skin was the dark bronze of sun-scorched earth, weathered and scarred. His hair was pulled into short dreadlocks, some threaded with bone or metal beads. He wore the remnants of a tattered uniform—military, once—but now ragged and bloodstained. Across his left eye ran a jagged scar, old but angry, like it refused to heal completely.
"I stitched you up best I could," the man said. "Would've been cleaner with tools, but… well." He gestured to the bare cell with a half-smile. "Did what I could with fire and thread."
Ash tried to speak. His throat was dry. He swallowed dust and pain. "Who… are you?"
"Name's Garran. Used to be a captain in the rebellion. Before the nobles burned it all to ash." He shrugged. "Now I patch up bleeding kids in prison pits."
Ash's breath caught. "Lily?"
Garran's face darkened. "The girl they dragged in with you? She wasn't here when I woke. They took her. Don't know where."
The fire in Ash's chest kindled again, slow and bitter.
"She's not dead," Garran added quickly, reading his face. "Would've heard if she was. They don't kill rebels quietly in this place. They make a show of it. Means she's alive. For now."
Ash slumped back against the stone, jaw clenched.
"Strong spark in you," Garran said, watching him. "Didn't think you'd survive. That magic—what was it?"
Ash hesitated. "I don't know. It just… happened."
Garran nodded slowly. "That's how it starts. Fire blood, maybe. Or something darker. Doesn't matter. What matters is what you do with it now."
Ash looked at his bound hands. "I want to find her."
Garran smiled, the kind of smile that knew too many dead men. "You and every poor bastard in this pit."
"I'll get out."
"Everyone says that too."
"I mean it."
That made Garran pause. He studied the boy again—saw the heat simmering under his skin, the quiet storm in his eyes. "Yeah," he said at last. "I believe you do."
Ash forced himself upright, gritting through the pain. "What is this place?"
"Old keep. Subterranean prison run by House Velmire. Not part of the main slave network—this place is for rebels, runaways, and people with inconvenient magic. Nobles send their trash here to disappear."
Ash frowned. "Why didn't they kill me?"
"Because something about you scared them. You think they've never put down a slave before? But you—boy who burns like a god? That's something new. Something worth locking away. Or using."
Ash looked at him sharply. "Using?"
"There's whispers," Garran said. "That House Velmire is building something. Gathering weapons. People. Magic. Preparing for a war they haven't declared yet. Maybe you're part of it now. Maybe they want to turn you into a weapon."
Ash's voice was low. "They'll regret that."
Garran chuckled. "Good. Hold onto that rage. You'll need it."
Footsteps echoed beyond the door. Ash froze. Garran stiffened.
A moment later, the cell door opened with a grinding squeal.
A new figure stepped in, flanked by two armored guards.
She was tall—taller than most men—with skin like polished obsidian and eyes so pale they looked silver in the torchlight. Her features were elegant and angular, her mouth perpetually fixed in a faint, amused smirk. Her hair was a mass of silver coils, tied back with gold wire. She wore a noble's attire—black coat with crimson trim, boots polished to a mirror sheen, and a rapier at her hip.
She didn't walk—she glided. Effortless, like a ghost with purpose.
"Which one is the boy?" she asked.
Her voice was smooth and cold, like wine poured over ice. Refined. Cruel.
The guard pointed. "Him, Lady Kaelith."
Ash stared up at her. Something about her made the air thinner. Like standing before a storm.
Lady Kaelith turned to him, tilting her head. "Interesting. So small. And yet they say you brought down a dozen men."
Ash said nothing.
She crouched before him, close enough that he could see the violet veins beneath her eyes, the faint shimmer of enchantment in her pupils.
"You'll do," she said.
Then she stood and turned to the guards. "Take him. The Inquisitor wants a demonstration."
---
Ash didn't resist as the guards dragged him to his feet. He was still weak, his muscles trembling with every step, but his mind burned with clarity. He memorized every turn of the corridor, every face they passed, every door and lock. He listened to the way their boots struck the stone and the places where echoes grew louder—tunnels, perhaps. Escape routes.
Lady Kaelith walked ahead, never looking back, her stride fluid and unhurried.
They moved through winding halls lit with dim red lanterns. The scent of damp stone and rusted metal hung thick in the air. Ash saw more cells—some filled with hollow-eyed prisoners, others empty and bloodstained.
Eventually, they reached a wide chamber that opened like a mouth of shadows.
At the center of the chamber stood a raised platform surrounded by iron runes etched into the stone floor. Shackles hung from chains above, slick with old blood. Braziers crackled around the room, casting flickering light that danced like predators.
Waiting for them was a man draped in crimson robes embroidered with gold runes. His face was hidden beneath a hood, but his mouth was visible—a thin, cracked thing stretched into something like a smile.
"Bring him," the man rasped.
The guards shoved Ash forward. Lady Kaelith crossed her arms and stepped to the side.
The man lowered his hood. His skin was pale, almost translucent, stretched too tightly over sharp cheekbones. His eyes were ink-black, voids without whites, and his hair was so thin it looked like spider silk. His entire presence screamed decay, as if life itself had rejected him but he lingered on by force of will.
"I am Inquisitor Marrow," he said. His voice was strange—both whisper and echo, like multiple mouths speaking at once. "And you, little ember, are a curiosity."
Ash said nothing.
Marrow gestured to the platform. "You burned through silence magic. Broke a binding rune. Survived a spear. And now… you'll show me what's inside."
The guards dragged Ash onto the platform. Shackles snapped shut around his wrists and ankles. He felt the pulse of the runes beneath his feet—a cold vibration that spread through his bones.
"Do you feel it?" Marrow asked. "That's suppression magic. It eats your strength. We use it for mages who scream too loudly when we open them up."
Ash stared at him, his body trembling from more than pain.
"You should be proud," Marrow continued. "Your pain will serve the Empire. Perhaps even shape the next generation of war mages."
He raised a hand.
And the pain began.
It wasn't physical at first. It was pulling—like invisible hooks sunk deep inside his chest, dragging memories out of him. He saw flashes: Lily's smile. The hound pens. The burning forge. Chains. Screams.
Then came the fire.
Real fire. Conjured by the Inquisitor's hand and flung against his skin. But it didn't burn like it should. It sank in, feeding something deeper.
Ash screamed—but not from pain.
From the rage.
Flames exploded from his chest again. Wild, unformed, cracking the air. The suppression runes flickered. Marrow staggered back.
Lady Kaelith's eyes narrowed.
Ash's skin glowed faintly—lines of light threading from his collarbone down his arms like molten veins. His head flung back. The shackles began to smoke.
"He's syncing," Marrow hissed. "Impossible. Suppression is failing."
Kaelith stepped forward. "Cut the feed."
"No!" Marrow snapped. "We need to see how far he goes."
Ash roared.
The flames turned black.
Chains shattered. The platform cracked. One of the braziers exploded, showering sparks across the room. A guard caught fire and ran screaming.
Marrow raised both hands, casting another rune—but Ash moved.
Too fast.
His body blurred. One moment chained, the next standing amidst flame. He grabbed Marrow by the throat and lifted him with one hand. The old man's feet kicked uselessly above the stone.
"You feel that?" Ash hissed. His voice had changed—deeper, edged with something not entirely human. "That's mine now."
Kaelith drew her rapier.
Ash threw Marrow aside like trash.
Then everything snapped. His body collapsed. The light vanished. He hit the ground, coughing blood.
Kaelith's blade hovered just above his heart.
But she didn't strike.
Instead, she crouched beside him, eyes gleaming with curiosity.
"You are dangerous," she said softly. "I like that."
Ash looked up, barely conscious.
"Don't die," she whispered. "Not yet. I want to see what you become."
---